


It Always Rains on Beltane

by dsa_archivist



Category: due South
Genre: Drama, F/M, Gen, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-03-16
Updated: 1999-03-16
Packaged: 2018-11-10 17:45:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11131734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: In her other life as High Priestess of a Chicago coven, Meg Thatcher worries that the Beltane ritual will lack efficacy.





	It Always Rains on Beltane

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).

It Always Rains On Beltane
    
    
     **M/F, Romance, Rated NC-17.  Caution:  this story
    contains a spoiler for ATQH.  And for those who don't like The Dragon
    Lady--stop reading right now!  Thank you kindly.**
    
    We all know that in the ordinary course of events Constable Fraser and
    Inspector Thatcher would never violate RCMP regulations by 
    becoming romantically involved.  But when extraordinary occasions arise,
    sometimes taking great risks can bring great rewards...

# It Always Rains on Beltane
    
    
    ### by Diana Read
    
                               
    
    
    * * *
    
    
    
    Four o'clock.  Inspector Meg Thatcher, Royal Canadian Mounted 
    Police Liaison Officer, looked up from her computer screen as her secretary
    placed a cup of tea on her desk and discreetly withdrew.  She pushed
    her chair away from the desk, picked up the teacup, 
    and went to look out her office window while she drank it.
    
    The sky that glowered over the building rooftops of the busy Chicago
    street threatened rain.  And this was the last day of April.  Rain at
    Samhain was one thing--it even rather enhanced the atmosphere on an autumn
    evening--but surely, even in Illinois, one could have hoped for decent
    weather at this time of year.
    
    Damn, she thought.  Why does it always rain on Beltane?  For one thing,
    cloaks would be required tonight in the circle; for another, the fire
    might go out.  How maddening the weather was, as maddening as the Celts
    themselves: why couldn't they pronounce words the way 
    they were spelled, instead of pronouncing _Samhain_ as Saw-en and
    _Beltane_ as B'yal-tin?  It was just another example of the Celtic
    propensity for making things appear other than they actually
    were...as in the case of her subordinate, Constable Fraser.
    
    She had treated him severely when she first took up her post at 
    the Canadian Consulate, watching him closely and disciplining him for
    even minor infractions of RCMP regulations.  But while he 
    appeared respectful of her authority, there was something in those blue
    eyes--inherited from some Scots ancestor, no doubt--that 
    eluded her; something in him that refused to bend or break despite her
    harsh treatment.  The Celts had historically resisted domination, and
    Fraser resisted hers.
    
    There was something wild in Fraser.  Not in behavior or appearance, but
    something in his spirit: something as wild and free as the Inuit tribes
    who roamed the Northwest Territories that had shaped his 
    upbringing and early career.
    
    Meg set down her teacup, then stopped before the mirror to make 
    sure her hair was tidy before she sat down at the computer again to deal
    with those interminable statistics.  She studied the reflected image
    with satisfaction, noting her controlled features and the 
    remote expression in her eyes.  Who would ever be able to guess 
    what she really was beneath that controlled surface? Who could 
    guess that tonight, in the woods beneath the full moon, she would preside
    over the Beltane fire as high priestess, calling on both Goddess and
    God to bless the earth and ensure its fertility during the coming season?
    
    She enjoyed the contrast between her outer and inner lives, knowing that
    no one in her workaday life knew the real Meg Thatcher.  Only the reddish
    cast to her dark hair hinted at her true nature, like a banked fire smoldering
    steadily beneath cold altar stone.
    
    At five minutes to six she shut down her computer, gathered 
    handbag and raincoat, and turned out the light in her office as she left.
    Nothing special was happening tomorrow or Sunday at the 
    Consulate; Constable Turnbull could be relied on to fulfill the few requirements
    of an ordinary weekend.  In an unusually good humor earlier in the week,
    she'd given Fraser the weekend off and 
    wondered why he'd permitted a slight smile to cross his normally impassive
    features. Oh, well, it was none of her business how he chose to spend
    his free time.  Occasionally, since that incident on top of the moving
    train three months ago, when he'd kissed 
    her for a good two minutes (part of her meticulous brain had been unable
    to resist timing it to the second), she'd wished it _were_ her business
    how he spent his free time.  But of course, fraternization between herself
    and a subordinate was out of the question: she'd made that quite clear.
    
    The nature preserve in which she and the other twelve members of the
    coven would conduct their Beltane ceremony lay a few miles 
    outside the city.  When she arrived there at nine, Meg glanced 
    disconsolately upward as she locked her car door.  Rain clouds 
    still raced across the night sky, shedding a few drops from time to time
    as they passed.  Tiger Eye, the next most senior member
    of the coven, was waiting for her at the parking lot.  He threw back
    the hood of his cloak as she approached, and bowed.
    
    "Dark Lady," he greeted her.  "Merry meet.  Careful, the path is a little
    slippery with the drizzle."  He indicated the path through the woods
    with his flashlight.
    
    "The parking lot seemed awfully full," Meg said as they walked 
    through the woods.  "We're not going to be disturbed by crowds 
    of beer-swilling teenagers, are we?"
    
    "In this weather?  I think not."  Tiger Eye sounded unconcerned. "But
    it's true that we're not the only ones here tonight.  There's a large
    contingent of Lakota holding a sweat lodge at the other
    end of the woods, but they'll stay out of our way.  Not to worry." 
    
    Meg could hear the soft, insistent drumming even before she saw 
    the light of the balefire in the clearing.  Her pulse quickened: she
    loved the beginning of a Sabbat ritual, when the drums called. The worshippers
    were gathering, the energy was rising: within minutes she would cast
    the circle to begin the ritual.  The half-ritual, she reminded herself.
    For one thing would be missing from tonight's celebration of the life
    force: her other half, the high priest.  She was the thirteenth member
    of the coven, elected high priestess by 
    consensus last Samhain, but...she ruled alone. Because she was 
    unattached, and the other members of the coven were all paired--
    either handfasted or dating--there would be no man to represent the God
    to her Goddess tonight. There would be no one to help her 
    enact the Great Rite. 
    
    And without the Great Rite, Beltane would not be the same. She 
    would not be able to lead by example, she would only be able to 
    inspire.  She would have to stand watch, alone by the Beltane
    fire, while others reenacted the Sacred Marriage of Goddess and 
    God.  And because she, the instrument of the Goddess, was only 
    half as powerful without her partner, perhaps the crops would not grow
    this year.  Perhaps the apple trees would blossom, but no 
    fruit would follow. Perhaps the corn would rise, but only half as tall.
    
    All the worshippers standing in the circle around the balefire turned
    toward Meg as she entered the clearing and bowed in unison.  
    "Merry meet, Dark Lady."
    
    "Merry meet, friends," she answered, marveling as always at the 
    respect her fellow coveners showed her.
    
    ("Why me?" she had asked them at Samhain, the day that ended 
    the old year in the Goddess religion and began the new. "I'm  a 
    newcomer to this circle, a newcomer to Chicago, in fact.  Why do you
    choose me as high priestess?"
    
    The others, holding hands as they swayed around the Samhain 
    fire, murmured together.  Finally, Tiger Eye spoke.  "We chose 
    you because we have never seen a woman as powerful as you, 
    Dark Lady.  Your magic is stronger than all of ours together.")
    
    Now she watched as Earth Dancer added another armful of apple 
    logs to the Beltane fire and Moon Spinner, the strongest drummer in the
    coven, began her soft, insistent drumming once more.  If they thought
    her magic was so strong, then she should use it.
    
    She made a swift decision.  "Friends, before we begin, I would like to
    ask your help.  You know we have no high priest to take the 
    role of the God tonight.  I would like..." she looked around at the faces
    in the firelight, "...to summon the God to come to us in person.  Here
    and now.  We'll be taking an enormous risk, because if our 
    combined powers are not strong enough to summon him, the energy 
    might dissipate too fast for us to use it in the Sacred Marriage.  But
    I'd like to try it, if you all agree."
    
    In fact the risk was largely hers.   For if she failed to summon the
    God, the coveners would know her magic was not as powerful as
    they had thought.  They would lose respect for her.  But if she
    succeeded...great risks could result in great rewards.
    
    A susurration of yeses arose.  "Yes, Dark Lady. Yes.  We support you
    in this. Yes."
    
    "Very well," Meg said.  "We begin."  She drew her _athame_ , the
    black-handled ritual knife whose dull blade ensured that it could never
    cause harm, from the pocket of her cloak and held it high. Her voice
    rang through the clearing as she began to call the four quarters.  "Guardians
    of the Watchtowers of the East...spirits of the air that is Her breath,
    be with us now!"
    
    After invoking the quarters, she walked around the outside of the balefire,
    cutting her athame through the air to cast the circle.  She liked to
    visualize it as a ring of pale purple fire, pulsing with energy.  "By
    the earth that is Her body, By the air that is Her breath, by the fire
    of Her bright spirit, by the waters of Her living womb, by all that is
    above and all that is below, the circle is cast.  We are Between the
    Worlds."
    
    And as always, her very blood seemed to leap with excitement as 
    she felt the Goddess enter her mortal self.  Now that they were 
    enclosed in sacred space, she led them through the beginning of
    the ritual.
    
    "Ground," Meg directed.  The coveners set their feet firmly on the soft
    moss of the forest floor, releasing a smell of damp earth and leaf mold.
    Through her sandals Meg could feel the earth-energy 
    pulsing up from the dark heart of the Mother through her feet, up her
    legs, through her sex, into her trunk, up to her heart and brain. 
    
    "Center."  The worshippers stood still and breathed deeply, 
    collecting their energy into one place, as the rushing waters of a stream
    find a deeper place in the stream bed to collect in a pool. 
    
    " _Visualize._  See the Horned God, lord of field and forest and
    stream, among us.  Visualize his strength, his power, the wild 
    spirit that drives all creatures of hoof and horn and paw.  
    Summon him, ask Him to bless us with his presence."
    
    The apple-logs crackled, releasing a shower of sparks and a 
    fragrant cloud of smoke.  Meg went deep into trance, visualizing her
    own totem, the owl.  She was wise, free, a creature of the night woods.
    She could fly; she could range over the world, looking 
    down, seeking her mate.  Where would she find him?
    
    And still Moon Spinner's expert hands drummed softly.  Once, 
    deftly slapping the drumskin in a rhythm that echoed in Meg's blood,
    Moon had shown her how the voice of the drum sang beneath the 
    surface beat.  "Hear it?"  she'd asked Meg, smiling.  "To me that rhythm
    is saying:
    
                    _Go-ing all the pla-ces/Go-ing all the way._ 
    
    It's Her voice, the voice of this drum."
    
    That voice was joined now by the voices of other drums. The 
    worshippers, entranced, began to dance slowly around the fire 
    and the energy rose higher.
    
    Meg took a deep breath of the rain-washed air, feeling two or three raindrops
    burst their coolness against her face.  The woodsmoke 
    swirling around her began to coalesce into a vision.  She saw a
    wolf--hard-muscled, wild and alone--racing toward her in her mind's eye.
    It was as free as she: she flew above, he ran below, a glorious creature
    of strength and grace.  Faster and faster the wolf ran 
    toward her until...
    
    ...until he came to a stop just outside the circle.  His fur looked ghost-white
    in the firelight.
    
    She stared at him.  For a wild creature, this animal looked 
    remarkably well fed. The wolf looked back at her, yelped, and 
    retreated from the fire.
    
    Entranced though she was, this gave Meg pause. Vision-wolves 
    did not yelp.  And anyway, this wolf looked disturbingly familiar.  In
    fact, she was pretty sure she knew his name.
    
    "Diefenbaker?"
    
    The wolf wagged his tail.  And then, through the woodsmoke, 
    Meg saw that Benton Fraser stood beside Dief.  He was hatless, 
    his plaid shirt unbuttoned, revealing a bare chest on which sweat gleamed
    faintly in the reddish light of the balefire. The expression on his face--the
    look of tranquillity in his eyes, the wideness of the pupil--told her
    that he was in trance also.
    
    "Lord!" she exclaimed involuntarily.  Then, recovering quickly, 
    "....of the fields and forests."
    
    He spoke as if his thoughts were coming from far away.  "Lady...of all
    things living."
    
    She understood.  He had been at the Lakota sweat lodge at the 
    other end of the woods, and had come at her--no, the whole coven's--
    bidding.  They had summoned him to be the God, and here he was.
    
    For some time--how long, she was never able to remember afterward-- they
    simply stared at each other.  She could sense his unspoken 
    question: _What am I doing here?_
    
    
    She spoke in a low voice.  "Will you perform the Great Rite with me?"
    
    He nodded.
    
    Meg's priestess instincts told her that the spiritual cleansing Fraser
    had just undergone in the sweat lodge made him the ideal candidate for
    tonight's purpose.  Their gazes locked as she said,  "Take off your clothes
    before I cut the doorway."
    
    She let her cloak fall away from her a little so he could see that she
    wore nothing underneath, and watched as he slipped off his 
    moccasins, stepped out of his jeans, shrugged off his shirt. He
    moved toward her.
    
    Swiftly, Meg cut a doorway through the pulsating energies of the circle
    to let him enter, then pasted the opening shut again with the tip of
    her athame.  She took Fraser's hand and drew him
    close to the fire.
    
    They stood facing each other. "Watch me," she said in a low 
    voice.  "Memorize what I do, because you're going to do it to 
    me when I've finished."
    
    She knelt on the ground and looked up at him as she said clearly, "Blessed
    are thy feet, which have brought Thee in these ways."
         
    She kissed each of his feet.  Raising herself, she looked at him again.
    "Blessed are thy knees, which kneel at the sacred altar."  She kissed
    each of his knees.
    
    She placed her hands on his thighs.  "Blessed is thy sex, without which
    we would not be."  She kissed the tip of his sex, which 
    sprang dutifully to attention at her touch.
    
    Meg stood up.  "Blessed are thy breasts, formed in beauty and 
    in strength."
    
    She kissed each of his nipples.  Why did his skin taste faintly 
    of salt?  Ah, yes.  Dried sweat from the sweat lodge.
    
    Meg put her hands on his shoulders.  How smoothly muscled they 
    were, how strong.  She looked into his eyes.  "Blessed are thy 
    lips, which shall utter the sacred names."
    
    How warm his lips were, warm and firm.  She would have liked to 
    let her mouth linger on his, but there would be time for that presently.
    
    Finally, she stepped back.  
    
    He looked as if he didn't know what to do next.  She had to help him
    out.  Again her voice rang through the clearing:  "Cernunnos, Lugh, Tammuz..."
    
    The other coveners echoed her, above the voice of the drums.  
    " _Cernunnos, Lugh, Tammuz.._."
    
    "Now you do the same to me," she whispered.
    
    Fraser dropped to his knees before her and looked up.  "Blessed 
    are thy feet..."
    
    He did it perfectly, as she had known he would.  After he kissed her
    lips, lightly, he too spoke in a ringing voice.  "Cerridwen, Astarte,
    Diana..."
    
    And the worshippers echoed, " _Cerridwen, Astarte, Diana_..." 
    
    "Okay," she whispered.  "Now we consummate the marriage.  That's the
    Great Rite." 
    
    The firelight cast a reddish light on his face, revealing an expression
    in his eyes that she had never seen before.  He took her upturned face
    in his hands and looked at her for a long moment.  Then his lips curved
    in a smile of singular sweetness. She felt his arms go around her and
    his mouth come down on hers.
    
    The drums sang:  _Go-ing all the PLA-ces/Go-ing all the WAY._
    The last time he'd kissed her like this, his tongue had tasted like snow
    melt. Now it tasted like the wild mint that grew by the 
    fast-running stream that wound through the wood, and with each
    delicious thrust inside her mouth she felt her psychic defenses 
    against him crumbling like the wood of the Beltane fire.
    
    Gently he pushed her to her knees, kneeling himself, facing her.
    
    The drums sang louder still:  _GO-ing all the PLA-ces/GO-ing all the
    WAY._     
    Meg sank back onto her fallen cloak and wound her arms and 
    legs around him as he entered her. She tightened her powerful 
    internal muscles around him, wanting to draw him deeper and 
    deeper, but even in this Fraser resisted her. He took charge of 
    their joining, advancing an inch at a time, retreating half an inch at
    a time--advance, retreat, advance again, retreat again--and 
    with each slow, exquisite thrust, the spirit of the Beltane fire consumed
    them until finally the cry of the owl blended with the
    howl of the wolf, and the echoes died away into the night.
    
    Soft, rich earth, soaking up sweet rain, transforming it into fruit and
    grain.  Soft, powerful woman-flesh, soaking up the sweet, 
    fertilizing rain of the male principle, transforming it into new life.
    Meg realized with a shock that Fraser's magic was as powerful 
    as her own.  He had awakened the fire beneath the altar stone.
    
    She knew now why it always rained on Beltane.
    
    
    
    **The End**
    
    
    
    ***********************************************************
    Copyright May 1996 by Diana Read on all original story content.  Not
    meant to infringe on copyrights held by CBS, Alliance, CTV, 
    or any other copyright holders for DUE SOUTH.  Please do not 
    reproduce for anything other than personal reading use without 
    written consent of the author.  Comments welcome at. 
    
    **GLOSSARY
    
    Beltane** --April 30/May 1.  In the Old Religion, days are reckoned
    from sunset to sunset, not midnight to midnight.  Beltane is one of the
    four fire festivals and one of the eight Sabbats in the Wheel of the
    Year.
    **Samhain** --October 31/November 1.  The most powerful day of the
    year, when the spirits of the dead return.  One of the four fire festivals
    and one of the eight Sabbats. 
    **Coven** --a community varying in number from 13 to 200.  Fewer than
    13 is called a circle.
    **Balefire** --an outdoor fire, often used as a signal fire.
    **Handfasted** --married, in the Old Religion.
    **Horned God** --the male consort of the Goddess in the Old Religion.
    **Great Rite** --ritual consummation of the Sacred Marriage of Goddess
    and God.
    **Athame** --pronounced AHH-tha-may.  Black-handled, blunt-bladed ritual
    knife, often used to cast the circle.
    **Quarters** --the four directions.
    **Circle** --sacred space in which ritual takes place.
    **Lakota** --Tribe native to the North American continent.
    **Sweat lodge** --in North American earth religions, a ritual in which
    heat is produced in an enclosed space, as an aid to meditation 
    and spiritual cleansing.
    

* * *


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